


Metempsychoses

by illicio



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crybaby/Manga Ryo Hybrid, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicio/pseuds/illicio
Summary: The tears are still coming, but slower now.  He wipes at them with the backs of his hands."Calm down," Ryo says.  "Think.  Why would I lie about that?"It's almost enough to make a guy not feel sorry for committing aggravated assault.  "I know what I did," says Akira.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a sloppy experimental devilmess because I love manga Ryo and wanted to write some of his personality traits in Crybaby Ryo. Aside from that, it's not going to be much of an AU.
> 
> This will likely turn into a catch-all for everything I write for this series and the writing quality is liable to be spotty. Tags will be updated as things seem relevant. I may or may not come back to edit for redundancy later.
> 
> Rating will be explicit later, but I didn't want to falsely advertise.
> 
>  

  
  


  
  


It's dark.

Moving feels like swimming in marshmallow: sticky and viscous; oppressive and invasive. Night vision: dim and murky; shadows bleed into the edges of his sight.

_Bᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ._

Devilman pauses,  
_Bᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. Mᴏᴠᴇ_!  
trying to parse the instinct.

_I sᴀɪᴅ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ sᴀɴᴄᴛɪᴍᴏɴɪᴏᴜs sʜɪᴛ. Mᴏᴠᴇ—_ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ _!_  
"Akira!"  
_Yᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜ—_ Oh _—ᴡɪᴇʟᴅ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ. Hᴇ'ʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ._  
_Lᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ᴛʜɪs. I'ʟʟ sʜ—_ Ryo _—ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ._  
_Lɪsᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ!_  
_Pᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ._  
_I'ʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ!_ —Sorry.

__

Flash-and-flicker: rapid-fire resonation. Sound ruptures in his ear. He recoils, snarling and gnashing his teeth as he tries to wrest himself from encroaching darkness. Hot flecks of sky splatter against his cheek—a succession of smacks, like coaxing him: _Stay awake. Something important is happening. Watch._

Devilman lifts his head. The world moves with him, roiling in slow motion. He sees white—an indistinct blob sharpening into shape.

Ryo.

No. This is wrong. Why's he still here? He's human. He'll die.

Ryo's eyes are large, electrified by blue fire, two specks of black where his pupils should be. (Not right. Not right. Something else is wrong. There's no light.) Devilman watches Ryo's lips move, like he's talking to someone—something—but he hears nothing but the thick, permeating silence. He witnesses the moment when lips give way to teeth: a high-strung grin, manic in the moonlight, glittering like the blade of a knife.

And then he doesn't see anything.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


The screaming wakes him.

Where's it coming from? Who the hell is this loud in the—the—whatever time it is, wherever this is? Who cares? It doesn't matter. Just shut up. Shut up already. Akira growls as he forces his body upright, clutching his hair in his fists. He keeps his eyes shut, but it doesn't block the sound out. It won't stop. Head's pounding. Why won't it stop? It hurts. Kill it.

_Kill it._

Weight wrecks into him like a ball. It's trying to trap him. Make him useless. He thrashes against the hold, another growl wrenching from him like a sob as he drives his knee into something soft. A wall of flesh. One not meant to stand: his assailant collapses once he's thrown aside. Akira lurches, pinning the threat. Disabling it. It's still now. It won't hurt him anymore. The screaming…

It's over.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


The world fades into existence as if snapped by a Polaroid. Akira shakes his head like that'll hurry it along. It's like regaining sight after going blind or trying to open his eyes only to discover they'd been open the whole time. Which they were.

Once the picture fills in, his stomach drops.

Ryo's face pinches in pain, mouth parted to make way for short, shallow breaths—like breathing hurts.

He's on top of Ryo. Pinning him. 

His eyes widen, blurry with tears that begin to roll from his lashes, plopping in large, round splotches on Ryo's cheek. Ryo winces an eye shut, otherwise uninterested in sparing himself from the oncoming flood. What he is interested in bending his arm at the elbow, reaching to touch-

Akira shakes his head, twisting away before the hand reaches his cheek. He pushes off the mattress (Ryo's mattress. In the room Ryo's given him), collecting himself in a sit at the edge of the bed, back turned to Ryo; feet planted on the floor as if that might ground him. Make it make sense. He drives the heels of his palms into his eyes and presses them, like bleeding a wound.

Before long, he feels movement rustle the sheets. Feels it creep closer, closer, and closer still, stopping only when it nudges a knee against his leg.

"Akira." Ryo's voice isn't like sunlight, but a shadow of it. Something that won't burn you if you bask in it for too long. It's accompanied by fingers at the back of his neck, denting the muscle, kneading it.

Don't, he wants to say. Don't touch me, but he can't bring himself to say anything. He's scared to lower his hands.

Softly, Ryo says: "You're shaking."

The hand at his nape migrates, slithering down his arm, circling his wrist like a bracelet. Ryo pries Akira's hand away, exposing a tear-smothered eye. No point in hiding now. Akira balls his hands into fists and punches them into the meat of his own thighs.

"Akira, look at me." It's hard to tell what expression Ryo's wearing when the tears keep getting in the way. He blinks them away—but the fight is futile: the more he tries to banish them, the quicker they fall. Bile burns in his stomach. Feels like barbed wire's wrapped around his heart and lungs and someone's pulling it tighter, tighter, tighter-

He doesn't look at Ryo. "Why didn't you kill me?"

Ryo releases Akira's wrist and withdraws his hand. He cranes his head as if trying to get a better look at Akira's face, searching him for something. A moment passes, then: "Why would I kill you?"

Akira's nose scrunches, twitching with the urge to bare his teeth. "You said," he turns to Ryo as he gulps, swallowing air. "You said," _hiccup_. "You said if I, if I—" _Hic._

The quiet breath of laughter doesn't help his mood. "You didn't do anything," says Ryo, which makes it worse.

"Don't lie to me. I atta—" _hic_. "I attacked you!"

The tears are still coming, but slower now. He wipes at them with the backs of his hands.

"Calm down," Ryo says. "Think. Why would I lie about that?"

It's almost enough to make a guy not feel sorry for committing aggravated assault. "I—ugh." _Hic_. "I know what I did," says Akira.

He frowns as Ryo moves away, watching him stretch like a cat, reaching for a bottle of water sitting on the nightstand. He scowls at that, too. When'd he get a nightstand? This apartment's an exercise in excessive expenses while owning as little furniture as possible.

Ryo knits his brows. "What?"

"Nothing." Akira shifts his eyes, no longer trying to murder an inanimate object. _Hic._ He opts instead to look toward the windows. Outside, the sky is a smear of blues, purples, and pinks; clouds burning their silver linings in favour of glowing gold trim.

He hears the twist-click of a cap, then: "Here."

Akira finds himself staring into the open mouth of the bottle.

"Drink," says Ryo, pushing it against Akira's mouth. "All at once. They'll stop."

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


They do, in fact, stop.

In the time it takes Ryo to extract himself from the bed, settle in the chair—another new piece; is he redecorating?—and tap-tap-tap at the laptop resting on his knees, Akira's tears have also stopped.

He finds himself listening. Tap-taptaptap, taptaptaptaptaptaptap, tap-tap-tap, taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—don't his fingers get tired?—taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—he's always so calm. Does he ever have trouble focusing on anything?—tap.

"Are you feeling better?" 

Akira starts, lifting his eyes. He sits cross-legged in the center of the bed, sulking. "How could I?"

"Calmer, then?" He doesn't look away from the screen.

"I guess," Akira says, dropping his stare back to the sheets, where Ryo had been beneath him.

"Let's talk then: you didn't attack me. You were screaming."

…and back to Ryo. Akira blinks, thoughts firing over and over without any impact. Click, empty, click, empty, click, empty.

"When I came in, you were punching yourself in the head." It's funny how he says things. He says it the same way he might say _Jenny, see if you can compile a list of citizens whose appearances and behaviours have altered significantly within the last month._ Which is to say: clinical, lively as a new morgue with no bodies in it. "You didn't hear me, so I stopped you."

But that doesn't explain everything. How'd Ryo end up beneath him, looking like something from the videos he watches when clean, classic hardcore fucking isn't enough to get him off? "How did I…"

"You winded me," says Ryo, who is adept at answering half-asked questions. "It wasn't intentional. You weren't awake yet."

That…isn't exactly good news. "What if I do it again?"

"You won't."

"You can't know that."

"I'll make sure you won't."

Comforting. Akira inhales a deep breath, holding onto it like a hostage. When he releases it, it shakes. He feels…he doesn't know. He feels _something_. A lot of somethings. Too many. They hang off him, heavy enough his bottom lip quivers under the weight of unknown emotion.

"Akira?"

Now Ryo's looking.

Akira tightens—tries to tighten his mouth. Can't seem to keep it the same shape. It tries to wriggle out of his control, to warp into something closer to misery. He raises his hands, spreading his arms.

The laptop clicks shut, abandoned on the chair as Ryo stands. His smile is so gradual it's hard to discern precisely when the expression changes. His movement is fluid as he pours himself on the bed, flowing into Akira's arms, enveloping him in a hug. He smashes his face against the dip between Ryo's neck and shoulder.

"I'll be more careful," Ryo says, his tone thawed by affection. Fingers breach Akira's hairline, combing through it. "I promise."

He lets himself sink into the feeling, drawing as much warmth from it as he can. "How long was I, y'know…"

Ryo's throat vibrates when he hums. "Twenty, twenty-five seconds. Not quite half a minute." Then: "It felt longer at the time."

"Man, the people in this building must hate you."

"They'll live." Ryo pauses. "Probably." Another pause. "I suppose it depends." And another. "I can't say. Statistically, the demons-"

Akira snorts, shaking his head, unwinding one arm to carry out an important task: smooshing his hand on Ryo's face. "Yeah, yeah, okay. I got it."

Ryo allows it.

Sometimes he feels like different people. There's cool and calm Surgical-Precision Ryo; Aloof Ryo, who resembles Surgical-Precision Ryo but is less caustic. Then there's Somewhat-Maniacal-And-Also-Terrifying Ryo; Protective Ryo; Docile Ryo; and Extremely-Maniacal-And-Also-Terrifying Ryo. What-Planet-Did-He-Come-From Ryo. Teacher Ryo—which makes sense, given the whole professor thing. All Ryos are weird, which Akira likes, but he comes closest to liking Buddy Ryo best. This one almost seems happy, like he's enjoying something for once. Not going through motions simply because there are motions to be gone through.

He tilts his head, enough to uncover part of his mouth from under Akira's hand. "You should eat."

"Yeah," Akira agrees, but he doesn't let go.

He hurt Ryo today. His best friend. He can feel his own breath, hot off Ryo's skin when he sighs—and hears a gasp; feels Ryo's body shiver against his. Can almost taste the jump in his heartbeat, rabbit-fast, pounding to the rhythm of life.

Ryo places his hands on Akira's shoulders, pushing their bodies apart; all fleeting glances and—his cheeks look pink. Akira stares. When's the last time he's seen them pink? He can't remember if it's ever happened. Seems like something that would stand out.

"Rest," Ryo says. "I'll bring you something."

No space for further discussion: Ryo vanishes from the room, leaving the memory of his pulse reverberating in Akira's chest.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of his day adheres to a strict schedule of food and sleep.

Not that it's hard to sleep after eating so much.

  
"Wait," he'd said around a mouthful. "Is this Kobe?" More accurately: _Wai, ih thih Kohbe?_

In any case, Ryo didn't seem to have trouble understanding. "Does it matter?" he'd said.

Akira swallowed. "Of course!"

"Hm."

"It does!"

No answer.

"It is, isn't it?"

"Keep eating."

"Ryo! It's too expensive!"  
  


Akira wakes to a dark room, well-rested but running hot, unable to move his arms from where he's snared himself in sheets. Could exert more effort to…no, that might rip them. No, that's stupid. It wouldn't rip them. …would it?

He knits his brows, unwilling to take the chance. He rolls his shoulders, twisting left and right, wiggling to free himself. Once the bedding pools at his waist, he kicks it to the f—uck! Correction: he snatches the bedding out of the air, pulling it back into his lap before it has a chance to fly, staring wide-eyed off the side of the bed.

Ryo's chair sits near the bed. It still contains Ryo, whose head bows; his arms folded over his closed laptop like a dragon hoarding gold. Out the window, Tokyo burns the stars to oblivion, allowing only the moon to bear witness to its endless light.

Has…has he ever seen Ryo sleep before? It seems impossible. Ryo falls asleep last and wakes up first. That's how it's always been.

Akira clicks his teeth and narrows his eyes. He shoves the blankets and sheets off of himself, slipping from the bed, silent as a predator. He stalks nearer, nearer, nearer until he stares at the top of a blond head. It's hard to see Ryo's face when he's standing over him. He drops to a crouch instead, peering at his face.

Tokyo night light isn't unkind to Ryo: it lends his skin a ghostly glow like he's something that doesn't belong in this world, but somewhere better. Somewhere kinder.

...have Ryo's eyelashes always been so long? It's kinda weird. Eyelashes this long on a guy. This seems wrong—not the eyelashes; those seem right, which is wrong in a strange new way he doesn't want to think about—but watching him. Noticing the in-and-out of his breath as his chest rises, falls, rises, falls, rises, falls. Steady with sleep.

Man, he feels like a creep.

Akira averts his eyes, chewing on his lip. Thinking. Ryo can't be comfortable. He's going to put a crick in his neck.

There's nothing creepy or weird about a friend helping another friend out. With this in mind, Akira turns his sight back to Ryo and lifts his hands, frowning as they hover over the laptop, as if unsure of where exactly he should place them. Against the wall, Tokyo's brilliance provides a clear portrait of his shadow, its fingers dangling like claws.

Okay. No. This is creepy _and_ weird. He's a weird creep. There's no way out of it. Just. He closes his eyes for the moment it takes him to inhale a deep breath through his nose. _Okay._

Akira pinches the laptop between his thumbs and fingers, slo…wl…y …pulling…pulling…pulling… …pulling…

Ryo's eyelashes twitch as if preparing to take flight.

Damn.

All right. This is fine. This is normal.

Be normal.

Normally, he yanks the laptop from Ryo's lap and crams it beneath the chair, lunging in a normal fashion, scooping his abnormal friend into his visibly normal arms like one might do with a cat, if one was supposed to hold a cat with one arm beneath their legs and the other behind their shoulders.

Ryo makes a sharp, startled _hf!_ that passes through Akira like a shiver; slashes a grin across his face, sharp enough to sunder. After a moment: "Ah—Akira?"

So sleepy! Miki sounds like this sometimes. It's cute.

"That's me," says Akira, creeping— _moving_ through the room, like someone who isn't a creep who steals people in their sleep, slipping into the hall.

Ryo's long lashes flutter—so many times and so quickly Akira couldn't count if he wanted. Wishes he had a camera, or a phone, or anything to capture his face. He looks like someone living in perpetual surprise, puzzled by existence itself. "What…are you doing?"

"Carrying you."

"I can tell. Why?"

"I'm taking you to bed!"

A strange sound suffocates in Ryo's throat. He thumps his hand against Akira's chest, pushing at him like that's going to accomplish anything. Akira glances down—to the palm touching the bandages wrapped around himself, which he's only now noticed. The bandages are clean, white—not quite the same pale as Ryo's skin. Too bad. Ryo's hand would've looked good against his bare—"What?" Akira says, terminating the thought.

"I can walk," says Ryo.

The penthouse is filled with dim, moody ambience from the world outside, but Akira's eyes no longer need light to see there's colour in Ryo's cheeks. "Ryoooo!" His voice bounces like a puppy, jostling Ryo in his arms. "Are you embarrassed?"

"No." It's Aloof Ryo's tone, but the delivery is too quick. Too clipped.

This must be the emergence of a new Ryo: Flustered Ryo. "Ohhh, so that's why your face is red!"

A conspicuous pause, followed by another thump. "It's physiological, that's all."

Sounds like bullshit, but Akira doesn't care to call him on it. "Miki carried me like this once," he says instead. "It was pretty embarrassing." 

"Akira…" Ryo shuts his eyes as if drawing from some inner pool of patience. " _Why_ are you taking me to bed?"

"Why?" What kind of friend does Ryo think he is? "You fell asleep in your chair!"

"You could have left me.

"No way! You'd get a crick in your neck."

When Akira crosses the threshold to the master bedroom—Ryo's room—he carries him as far as the bed, where he promptly dumps him in the center. Ryo drops, the mattress absorbing the impact as if he weighed no more than a feather. Unwilling to give him a chance to make this difficult, Akira fusses with the thick white blanket, pulling it from under Ryo and then over him, swaddling him in it.

Once finished, he takes a step back, admiring his creation. The long and puffy bundle of blanket stares up at Akira like he's grown three heads, all barking incomprehensible demands.

Akira swivels, examining Ryo from the left and the right, tilting his head to examine from different angles, considering. Satisfied, he straightens. "Go to sleep."

Ryo's lids lower, lower, and lower till they flatten his face. "But I'm awake now."

"Close your eyes and try," says Akira as he turns from the bed, waving the comment off, because while it never worked, everyone always told him that anyway. He heads for the doorway. And pauses midway, glancing over his sh—"No you don't!"

He pounces, clearing an arguably impressive amount of distance, half-throwing himself into the bed to push at the moving blanket. Ryo sinks back into the bed, his brows creased, mouth a flat line. "Stay down," Akira says, firmly tucking the blanket back in place.

He climbs out and conducts another review. It looks good, except for the way Ryo works his hand free to rub at his cheek, like scratching an itch.

Their eyes meet. Akira juts his bottom lip out in fashion he imagines might be cool or intimidating. He sulks. Hard. Daring him to make another move.

Ryo pulls his hand back into the blanket, restoring his true bundle status.

The sharp, unhappy angle that had become Akira's mouth lifts at the corners. Good. Ryo's cooperating. He takes it back: he likes all Ryos, but he likes Cooperation Ryo best. Cooperation Ryo doesn't sabotage his hard work. Once he's convinced Ryo won't move, Akira heads for the door again.

"Where are you going?"

Good question. Akira thinks. "Bathroom," he says. "Swim?" Less sure. "Food. Maybe?" Probably. "Go to bed!"

He can hear Ryo sigh as he closes the door.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


The bathroom: where things happen.

Standard human things. A place where you can adjust yourself without anyone staring like you've got a problem. Everything is normal, except the fact his dick is still in his hand when he spots the blood. Not _on_ it—not this time—but brown and oxidised, looking permanently pressed into the shreds of white heaped on the floor like a pile of bloody snakes.

It takes him a moment to remember to shake himself and put it away. Because he's retained some semblance of manners, he washes his hands—and immediately undoes his effort by approaching the pile, squatting beside it, pinching a piece of fabric between his thumb and index finger, and lifting it. It's a heavy, thick strip—one of many that might have looked like they'd been run through a shredder if the cuts weren't so reckless. He wrinkles his nose and drops it.

Change of plans: he takes a detour back to Ryo's room. When he opens the door,

Akira says, "Seriously?"

—Ryo sits upright, laptop in his lap, tap-tap-tapping the keys. The lamp is on. He doesn't even have the decency to look up or show any guilt about what he's done. "That was fast," he says.

Akira ignores him, crossing the room. "How many of those d'you even own?"

The question twitches the corners of Ryo's mouth. A few times. Like he's trying not to smile. "I'm not telling."

This guy.

He pushes the laptop out of Ryo's lap, sending it sliding to the bed beside him. Ryo opens his mouth as if to speak, but he's cut short by Akira fisting the hem of his shirt, jerking it up to expose the long stretch of sun-shy skin from waist to chest.

Looks clear. That's good. Ryo looks—startled? Surprised? Something. "Akira, what-"

"What's with the bathroom?"

Ryo considers. "Which one?" Like he doesn't know damn well which one. Almost dainty, Ryo plucks his shirt from Akira's grip, smoothing it back down.

"The one with all the blood," Akira says.

"Ah," says Ryo, pulling the laptop back over the tops of his thighs. "So Jenny hasn't come back yet."

That doesn't make sense. Akira picks at the blanket, half because it distracts him, half because he's determined to put it back on Ryo—who is good enough of a sport to lift the laptop, allowing Akira to cover his legs with it before setting it back down. "What happened?"

"You lost a lot of blood—and subsequently, your form." He taps his fingers on the keys again. Taptaptaptaptap- "I figured it was better to stanch the bleeding rather than wait till we got back."

"You...?" _Ryo_ bandaged him? Where did he get— "Your coat!"

Taptaptaptaptap. "What about it?"

"You ripped it up."

"I cut it, but yes."

"You always wear that coat."

"It's just a coat," says Ryo, sounding like he might be able to care less, but only because the thought of caring hadn't occurred to him at all. "I can replace it," he adds, lifting his eyes, passing a glance to Akira. "I can't replace you."

"Oh," he says, dumbly.

Ryo inches away from the center of the bed, moving more to one side. "Akira," he says, patting his hand on the vacancy he's created, like beckoning a dog.

Akira's face feels hot. Like someone handed him a fire and he just rubbed it all over. "I, um, didn't shower."

"I don't mind." Ryo turns his attention back to his work. "I like how you smell."

A short, startled bark of laughter. "You're so weird."

Total change in plans: Akira climbs in without hesitation. After all, it's not the first time they've shared.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


But it is the first time Akira is still awake long after Ryo sets his laptop aside and kills the lights. He turns. Turns again. And again. 

Again.  
Again.  
Again.  
Again.  
Aga  


"Can't sleep?"

Akira glances sidelong, settling for rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. "You too?"

"It usually takes me a while." Ryo shifts, turning on his side to face him.

It's still strange being able to see him in clear detail when all the lights are out. He looks back to the ceiling, thinking about the implication. "I dunno. You seemed pretty tired before."

"Maybe. I didn't notice. How do you feel?"

How _does_ he feel? Not sure. Different. Tense. Like his heart's gonna start pounding. It's weird.

"Physically," Ryo says, the corners of his mouth reaching a faint smile.

Which makes him feel...worse? Or not worse, but something stronger. Ryo's smiles are few; he doesn't give them often. "Better," says Akira. "I think. I mean, I haven't bled through these yet."

"You might by the time you wake up.

"If I ever get to sleep."

"You'll have to eventually."

"Whenever that is."

"Some unspecified point in the future, I'd imagine."

"Ryo…"

"Hm?"

Akira sighs the sigh of the put-upon.

And cordially smothers him with a pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumb banter continuation of what I wasn't able to finish writing last week since my job slaughters me during the weekdays.

  


  


"Hey, Ryo. You still awake?"

"Mm."

"How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The coat. Cutting."

"A knife."

" _Aaah_?" His voice grinds with the grit of skepticism. Akira turns on his side, propping his head up with his hand, looking at Ryo—who is also on his side, facing Akira but not looking at him, his eyes shut: the portrait of an angelic dreamer. "You still carry a knife?"

"Knives, plural. Three or four, depending."

It's ridiculous how little the words match that peaceful face. "What's the point when you carry all those guns?"

"I don't carry that many guns."

Akira quirks a brow. "I've seen you use like, five different ones in one night." Speaking of which… "How d'you even set some of those up so fast?"

"Efficiently."

"You trying to tell me somethin'?"

" _Sleep,_ Akira."

"Okay, okay, but what's with the one with the legs?"

Ryo's brows knit. He frowns—faint, subtle; like someone stuck on solving a math question. Which is also ridiculous. Akira can't imagine Ryo being stuck on anything. "Ah," says Ryo, his expression smoothing back into sleepy serenity. "The bipod."

Akira blinks. "The what?"

"The so-called legs of the sniper rifle I used. They steady the weapon, which improves the accuracy of the shot."

"Huh, I've never seen you have a problem hitting something without using legs." Pause. "The bipod."

Akira watches the corners of Ryo's mouth curve up. "Flattering me isn't going to make me forget you should be asleep."

"Last question. Why all the knives?"

"I don't carry that many knives."

Akira's expression flattens. Who abducted Cooperation Ryo and replaced him with Contrarian Ryo? "Why _three or four knives, depending_?"

"You used your last question already."

"That doesn't count!"

No reply.

"Ryo," Akira whines. "C'mon. Tell me!"

He watches Ryo's chest inflate with a deep breath; listens as it exhales in a sigh. "It depends on the situation," Ryo says.

"Why? They're knives."

"Their function varies by type."

"Knives are knives. They cut stuff."

Ryo cracks one eye open. "You're being difficult because you don't want to sleep."

Ah. Akira's lips press into a line, pushing out into a sulk. He averts his eyes, inconspicuously conspicuous, his voice carrying the pout when he says, "I was just curious."

"Are you? I'll show you next time we're in the woods. Or the slums, I suppose."

"Oooh? So you're a true American after all."

A moment passes. "…yes?" says Ryo, who doesn't sound sure. "I have dual citizenship."

He doesn't look sure either. Akira's grin saws across his face, spreading wide and sharp; shoulders shaking with the laugh he doesn't let out beyond the quiet, near-breathless _heheheheh_.

"Why are you laughing?" Ryo's voice radiates ill-humour, like bristling at a joke he doesn't understand.

"Nothing! I just meant you've got that American survivalist spirit."

"It's called being prepared."

"Yeah, like I said. Survivalist."

"It's just common sense," says Ryo, finally closing his eye like a dismissal.

"It's surprisingly outdoorsy, is what it is. Didn't think you had it in ya. You ever even been in the sun?"

Lofty, from the height of a horse far taller than anyone else's: "What search were you in that you discovered survivalism?"

_AMAZING TITS ON HITCHHIKING BUSTY BLONDE BOMBSHELL FUCKED IN THE WILD BY SEXY SWINGING PREPPERS HARDCORE DP FACIAL._

"Why's it gotta be a search?" says Akira, more defensive than he would have liked. He averts his eyes. Hard. Face burning less from embarrassment and more from such a casual call-out. "Maybe I read about it. Or maybe I know stuff." He flops onto his back, looking at the ceiling instead of at Ryo, which isn't at all evasive.

...meanwhile, Ryo's lashes lift. He lifts his head, mimicking Akira's previously-held posture, chin propped up with his hand. Akira closes his eyes. He doesn't need to see Ryo to know he looks like a sapient shark who figured out how to get inside the cage. "Or, perhaps, searching for something involving the word 'wild' and clicking through related videos?

"Man, it sure is late! Guess I'm going to sleep now. Night Ryo!"

He can feel Ryo's grin. He's sure of it.

"Hmm. Sweet dreams, Akira."

Somehow, it feels like a threat.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


Time passes.

"I remember when we found you," Akira says, voice pitched low to avoid disturbing sleepers should they have drifted off. He sneaks a peek at Ryo, searching for a sign.

Ryo catches him in the act: his eyes are already open. He gives Akira a long, slow blink. After, he tips his chin as if to say, _And_?

Akira takes the invitation. "It was something out of a horror movie."

He watches Ryo go still. A heartbeat later: "Don't you hate those?"

The question is tinged with something Akira doesn't quite understand. He thinks about it. "Huh. Not really."

Silence hardens around Ryo like a shield. He sits upright, smoothing his pillow as he stares down at Akira, as if the topic of horror movies is worth his undivided attention. "When did you notice?"

"Eeeeh…just recently," he says, because it's better than saying _Oh, you know, this is yet another unanticipated change in my personality since my life as the human, Fudo Akira, ended._ "Why does this matter, anyway?" He stuffs his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "I mean, it's not like I've watched any." He'd rather go back to talking about porn searches.

Ryo's presence becomes somehow softer. Funny how he can feel it even when he isn't looking at him. "So you wouldn't know, then."

"Know what?"

"If I was from a horror movie."

"Sounds like something somebody from a horror movie would say."

"But you wouldn't know," says Ryo. The repetition seems to soothe whatever feathers he'd rustled for himself. Akira watches out the corner of his eye while Ryo folds, sinking back into the bed. He doesn't pull the blanket back over himself, like he's forgotten to do it as he endeavours to watch Akira instead.

But it feels nice. In a weird way. "Neither would you," Akira says.

"Maybe I watch them."

"Pffff."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me." Akira moves a hand, reaching to where the blanket has bunched at Ryo's legs, tugging it back over the rest of his body. "You only watch news, documentaries, and boring lectures."

Ryo watches Akira's hand, following it as it withdraws. "They're not boring when you understand the material."

The only way it would be possible for Akira to roll his eyes harder would be if he rips them from his face, kicks them through one of the large penthouse windows, and sends them twisting violently through the sky until they crater the city below. He clears his throat, deepening his voice to the point where it almost hurts. "Now then, I don't mean to bereave the p-"

"Belabour."

"-oint, but we got to making all the…uh, the calculations. And combinations. There's all these combinations of…" Deep voice: paused. "What's the last documentary you watched?"

"Title or subject?"

"Subject's fine."

"Medical malpractice."

"Seriously? Okay, whatever. So." Deep voice: unpaused. "There's all these combinations of…of bones. They're, uh, all very lonely, so you see-"

Ryo's voice, incredulous: "Have you ever watched a documentary?"

"-so we put them in a huge tube. Really big. For testing. And uh, they all boned together-"

"Stop."

"-which brings us to, uh, the boning in its qualitative interdepende _mnpph-_ "

Deep voice: cut off, stopped by the _clop!_ of teeth pushed together by Ryo's hand on Akira's jaw. The blanket stirs with laughter, soft like the ringing of muffled bells. "They don't sound like that," Ryo says, pulling his hand back.

Akira's voice, belligerent: "They're worse!"

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


Later: "Akira?"

This is absurd. Why are either of them pretending at this point? "Yeah?"

"You don't hate them now, but do they bother you? Horror movies."

"This is really bothering you, huh?"

"Of course. The previews used to make you cry."

Well, looking at it that way…he supposes he can see Ryo's interest. "Nah. It's all fake. Kinda get the appeal now though. All that adrenaline."

Ryo is quiet, like he's digesting the answer. "Why don't you watch them?"

"Why don't you?"

"I don't like violence."

Akira snorts, loud and undignified. He opens his eyes, raises both his brows, and tilts his head in a dubious glance. Ryo has the nerve to look innocent—or maybe he isn't trying. Sometimes his face does that for him. "Sooo, how d'you explain the whole…" How do you say…? Akira raises his hand above him, curls his fingers as if holding a pipe, and jabs at the air.

Ryo stares at him, silent.

"You know what this is," says Akira, spearing the air again.

More silence. Longer this time.

Akira sighs. "I'm _stabbing_."

Ryo regards him with a long, appraising look. "Not like that you're not."

"See?! That's what I mean!" Akira rolls toward Ryo, taking revenge for a lifetime of friendship by stabbing him in the ribs—with his fingers. Gently.

An eruption of limbs: Ryo gasps, pushing and struggling against Akira as his voice strains: "A— _Ki_ —Ra!" Each syllable stressed with the effort he must be expending to resist laughter. "Stop!"

So, this is what it feels like to be the shark.

He doesn't relent—not when Ryo squeaks like a toy; he wants to hear that again—but it can't last forever. Don't want him to get used to it. Might not be as effective in the future. Plus he'll probably get mad eventually. He doesn't want that.

Akira releases Ryo—who thrusts his palms into Akira's chest, shoving him back. He makes a sound like _Aah,_ his eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving with heavy breath; cheeks blooming with the flush of exertion.

So pleasant to the ears it scorches them; easy enough on the eyes he can't tear them away. Ryo looks so…human. Like he's not as detached from everything as he seems to believe he is. "I could get used to this," Akira says.

Which is when Ryo opens his eyes, looking back at Akira like he's startled; the blue of his eyes nothing but thin rims containing the spilled ink of his pupils.

Which is. 

Which is. 

"I, uh." Words bubble from Akira's mouth. "Not like, uh." Like a man drowning on land. "Um, I mean, not in a weird way." Or a fountain. "It's just." A broken one. "It's just nice. Seeing you have have fun for once."

In the moment that follows, only the sound of Ryo's breath is between them.

So gentle, like warm reassurance: "What do you mean? I always have fun with you."

Which isn’t.

Which isn't.

Isn't good. Feels like something's shifting on his insides. Squirming at his core, uncomfortable and hot.

As if he senses it, Ryo says, "We should sleep."

"Yeah." Akira turns his back to Ryo, because it's easier to deal with this way. He curls his portion of the blanket around him, like it might be able to protect him from the thoughts he's avoiding. "Night, Ryo."

"Goodnight, Akira."

He feels the bed shift.

…did Ryo turn away?

No. It shouldn't matter. Why should it bother him if Ryo did the same thing he did? It shouldn't. Wouldn't. There's not even any proof that's what he did.

But he doesn't look to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now an incredibly disjointed young Ryo chapter. "When will the rating change," I whisper to myself, wondering why I can't make my brain cooperate with my desires; slapping words down in spite of how they could really use more editing.

  


  


The wind seethes through the trees, branches rustling like wings as they sway. A leaf snaps free, drifting like a feather. He follows it with his eyes, watching it fall. It settles on the pavement before him, bright and star-shaped.

Autumn in Tokyo; early November. The leaves are changing. Only-stemmed weak outliers fall now. It will take weeks before the rest follow. Once they do, they'll wither and curl. They won't be beautiful. They'll be noisy and broken.

Which, he supposes, is beautiful in a different way.

Its veins pop beneath his heel when he crushes it.

Asuka Ryo is ten years old. He walks home alone because he no longer attends the same school as Fudo Akira. He attends university and will depart for the United States to begin his doctorate in the Spring. He isn't lonely because he doesn't know how it feels.

But he does feel surprise.

It pulses within his chest and steals the breath from his lungs: Fudo Akira sits on a bench further down the sidewalk. He grips the edge of his seat, staring at the ground. Disposition: tense. Expression: downcast. He isn't looking for Ryo. Conclusion: he isn't waiting for Ryo. So why is he here?

"Akira!" Ryo calls for him before his mind gives him leave.

It's interesting, he thinks, on a level of thought removed from all the rest, invisible like an undertow. How this body moves by itself. Already he's darts like a projectile toward a target.

Akira fumbles with his hands, even though he wasn't doing anything with them. He jerks his head toward Ryo, posture perking. "Ryochan!"

He hears the sound of his shoes striking the ground one footfall after another, each one bringing him closer and closer until he stops short in front of the bench, peering into Akira's face. Akira blinks at him. "Ryochan?"

Ryo straightens, looking left and then right, over his shoulder, over Akira's shoulder.

Nothing.

"Where are they?" Ryo says.

Akira looks like someone did a manual reset and now he has to wait for the mental processes to reboot. "Where are who?"

"The people bothering you. Where'd they go?"

Akira's face is a clean state of confusion, but soon it warms like Summer. He likes it when Akira looks like this, although he isn't sure why. "Nobody bothered me. I'm okay."

Ryo releases a puff of breath, expelling the tension he wasn't aware his stance had been holding. That's good. He offers his hand to Akira, who is still sitting. "Did anything happen?"

His hand feels hot when Akira takes it. They stand face-to-face. "Nothing happened," Akira says—and he must see whatever expression tightens over Ryo's mouth, because he adds, "Really!"

Then why the hell did he look like that a minute ago? It doesn't make sense. Ryo lets go. "I don't mind, but…why are you here?"

Similarly, Akira doesn't mind the bluntness. "I was waiting for you!"

Which isn't what he expects to hear. He stares at Akira with wide eyes. The skip of a heartbeat, then: "Come over."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course. Jenny will drive you home. Let's go."

He doesn't need to look to know Akira will follow.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


There's time for conversation on the way there.

"Hey, Ryochan…"

"Mm?"

"Actually, earlier, I thought…" Or an abortive attempt at it: Akira cuts himself off. "No, it's okay. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," says Ryo, because this means Akira wants to talk. He just doesn't know how. "So tell me."

"It's stupid."

Akira doesn't self-deprecate like this when it comes to family or schoolwork. It must be something else. "How stupid?"

"Really stupid."

"About what?""

"Animals."

He doesn't have pets. "That isn't stupid." Pointless, maybe. A useless expenditure of energy, but never stupid.

"Mmm."

Akira doesn't say anymore. Not yet. Ryo looks up as they walk. It won't be long before this path takes them from the illusion of nature to a concrete reality. Ginkgo leaves fan out overhead, like waving goodbye. They haven't changed yet. Too early in the season. Animals. Did Akira find a dead one? No. He'd definitely be crying.

Thought passes through his mind like a dull throb. Ryo comes to a stop, turning to look at Akira over the short distance separating them. Akira, too, comes to a standstill, tipping his head, as if about to ask a question.

"Halloween is over," Ryo says.

Akira flinches, blinking his large brown eyes like he's seen a ghost. "E-eehhh—Ryochan?!"

Bingo. The corners of his lips twitch as he firmly holds Akira's gaze. "It isn't true."

A picture in lesser-control, Akira's lips part and then press back together. Part, press, part, press, part-press. Eventually: "How'd you know?!"

"The welfare of black animals is something you'd care about. In any case, those rituals don't exist. It's antiquated superstition dating prior to Halloween's arrival in Japan."

"A, aah…" Akira's voice swims in stupor.

"It isn't real." Sometimes it pays to be repetitious. "Even if it was, the Devil wouldn't come for something like a cat."

That seems to shake him out of it. Akira closes his eyes, exhaling a beleaguered sigh. "They're so cute though."

"I don't think he'd care about that," Ryo says, the curve of a smile present as he turns.

The air is lighter. Akira must feel better.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


"Can't you do it for me?"

"I can't."

"Ryoooochaaaan!"

"No."

"How come?"

"Because you need to learn it yourself. Here-"

It isn't his intention to spend his last months in Japan as a tutor. The trouble is he'd made the mistake of looking at Akira's homework. Akira isn't stupid: his grades are good, but they aren't the best. His logic is faulty, likely leading him to the wrong conclusions on anything requiring sound reason. Psychology suggests that part of his mind likely hasn't developed yet, but the teachers here aren't so understanding of that kind of thing.

One afternoon, when they're seated beside each other, Akira says, "I bet you're as smart as my mom and dad!"

Ryo starts, unable to do anything but look up and stare at him. His face tingles with heat. Why? He lifts a hand, touching his own cheek—a cursory check, just in case. Evaluation: normal.

He understands he is not well-liked by anyone but Akira, but those in positions that matter tend to agree: Asuka Ryo is a child who possesses the potential to change the world. He's heard remarks on his intellect since he's been old enough to retain memories.

But it's odd. It feels like it means something from Akira.

He has given lectures. He has explained concepts clearly and concisely to hundreds of students without missing a beat. Asuka Ryo does not have false starts. "Wh-" Correction: Asuka Ryo didn't have false starts. First time for everything. "What?"

Akira, who's been watching him, starts to grin. "It's true. Ryochan's so good at everything!"

Ryo parts his lips, but no sound comes out. He closes his mouth. No point in keeping it open if it isn't doing anything. His eyes avert, sliding back to the papers on the table in front of them. "I'm not, but I'm happy you think so highly of me."

"Don't be embarrassed," Akira says.

Ryo feels the burning brightness of the smile that follows. "I'm not," he says.

"Your face is all red."

"It is not." Is it?

"It is!"

"Akira..."

"Yeah?"

Ryo moves his hand—the one that had been touching his cheek—and reaches for Akira as if he has to be careful or else he might break something. Akira glances at the hand, then back to Ryo—whose brows have furrowed, knitting a concentrated frown. He pushes. Ineffectively. Akira doesn't budge, he blinks.

Ryo tightens his mouth and pushes harder. They stare at each other: an impasse.

Then, like flicking a switch, Akira's face is alight as he yelps: "Aaaahh, you pushed me!" As if there has never been anyone happier to be pushed in all creation.

Akira flings himself into Ryo, using the momentum to throw his arms around him in a fierce hug. In turn, Ryo mashes his face against Akira's neck, clutching him like he's precious.

"Stop, stop—it tickles!"

Ryo doesn't stop. Not even when Akira's aimless flailing lands them both on the floor.

That doesn't matter. This is what matters.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


"No—no! Don't go!"

That was the first time he'd heard his voice. It was over the sound of an engine, although he hadn't known it was an engine at that time. Then, a woman's voice: "Stay in the car, Akira." Unpanicked, firm. The sound of a car door slamming. Footsteps like hooves racing to trample him.

That was Fudo Sumiko. She called to him and spoke things he didn't understand, so he didn't try to answer. Breathing was enough. She cloaked him with something—a jacket, large enough to be a blanket. Fudo Reijiro's, maybe—because all they'd found him wearing was blood and grime he hadn't the wherewithal to remove. They put him in the backseat of their car. Modest in size. Sufficient to contain two adults and two children.

If it was Fudo Reijiro's jacket around him, where was he?

He was with her. He drove the rest of the way back home—no, to the hotel. They'd been travelling. It was chance they'd found him. He didn't remember the way, but he remembered looking out the window, watching all the lights pass by like globs of fire. Fudo Sumiko sat beside him in the back seat, but it wasn't her he remembered. It was that young face. The boy with the mouth hanging open, gaping at him.

He remembered trying to keep his eyes open, tense being watched by such fear-filled eyes.

Only when the tears washed away the boy's alarm had he felt secure enough to sleep.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


After he'd been bathed, dressed in the boy's clothes, Fudo Sumiko asked questions he couldn't answer if he'd wanted—which he hadn't. He didn't want her to talk to him. He wanted the boy to talk to him. The boy spoke in words that didn't work but sounded nice. Shared his food. Held onto him.

Sometime during that first night, the boy said: "W…re…yo…ts…?"

He grasped at sounds like building from bones; constructing a frame of understanding out of nothing, filling it in with the flesh of the sentence.

Whe…re…our…ents…

Where are your…

How should the words take shape? He felt like he should know. Like he knew how to speak, but it felt far away. He took his eyes from the boy and set them elsewhere. Looking at the boy had become uncomfortable, but that hadn't kept him from talking.

Softly, he said, "Akira."

Akira froze.

"You're Akira," he said, testing the sound again.

It felt good in his mouth, like peace.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


_What is your name?_

The woman in uniform spoke in the manner of an adult making sure a child could understand them although it had been over 24 hours since words had started making sense. Even so, he only had one answer: I don't know.

_Where are your parents?_

I don't know.

_Do you know what you were doing in the road?_

I don't remember, he said, because adults were more receptive to the same answer when you said it in different words. They were less accusatory; less likely to think you were hiding something.

_Did anyone hurt you?_

I'm not sure.

_Do you remember where you came from?_

I…

The water.

_Were you swimming?_

No.

_Do you remember anything about the water?_

I fell.

_Are there any names you remember? Anything familiar?_

Light: electricity coiled and struck like a sn _ᴀ_ ke, fangs sinking into the core of hi _s_ mind. He grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes sh _ᴜ_ t; hissing through the pain blooming through his head like veins; forging a neural networ _ᴋ_ that didn't—shouldn't h _ᴀ_ ve existed.

He bowed his head, digging his nails into his knees and lurching forward; vaguely awa _ʀ_ e of someone rushing to keep him from falling off his seat. Agon _ʏ_ sparked, and sparked, and sparked, and sparked until the sensati _ᴏ_ n was eclipsed by the memory burning black behind his retinas.

Jenny, he said.

_Who is Jenny?_

Jenny was…

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


"Ryo—Ryochan, no!"

"Hold still."

Disaster: Akira shakes his head like a wet dog, trying to keep Ryo at bay. Ryo strains against his weight, trying to swipe him with the cuff of his shirt. Akira leans his head back, his tears replaced by laughter.

Ryo stares at him. He doesn't understand. "What?" Akira doesn't look sad anymore—but there's a blotch of wetness glistening on his forehead. It has to go. He reaches again-

Akira resists. "No, no! You'll get it all gross."

"Get what gross?"

"Your shirt!"

Ryo glances down at the long sleeve of war, which wears evidence of his struggle at the wrist. He looks back up. "I don't mind."

Akira looks horrified. "You're wearing it!"

He does have a point. Ryo begins to unbutton his shirt—which seems to upset Akira more. " _Ryo_ chan," he snuffles, fighting Ryo for control over his own arms, trying to keep them from leaving their sleeves.

Ryo considers the sound. "You can blow with it if you want."

"Bleh."

"It's just mucus. It'll wash out."

"But you have tissues."

Oh. "They'll do, I suppose," says Ryo, buttoning the shirt back up.

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


"I'll miss you when you go."

"You should come with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I have school, plus I'd never see my mom and dad."

"They can come visit us instead."

"It's not that bad. I'm staying with Mikichan when they're gone."

"You could stay with me. I wouldn't mind."

"Ryochan, I…"

"I know. It's all right."

  


  


  


∞

  


  


  


"I remember," he'd said. "My name is Ryo, family name Asuka. Jenny is my legal guardian. My parents are dead."


End file.
